DATELINE: May 7, 2016 Red Bank, NJ, and environs
The Farmlands Flat Century; or, the Battle of Monmouth by Bicycle
I tried to capture New Jersey last October, through the MS Ride, City to Shore, but Chris Christie took time out from his doomed presidential campaign to declare a state of emergency in his home state, and the ride was called off. I spent that weekend in Philadelphia instead, with my friends Graham and Betsy, and Graham and I rode out with Gearing Up, a group he volunteers for, leading weekly bike rides for women recovering from addiction. It was fun and worthwhile, and we didn’t have to ride 80 miles into the teeth of a Nor’easter.
Surgery in January, then a bit of recovery time, but I was feeling well enough to bike nearly 40 flat miles in Florida by March, so I figured, what the heck. We’d had a mild winter; I could keep on riding in New Jersey as winter rolled into spring, and I could shoot for my first 100 mile ride. Lo and behold, I found a ride in Monmouth County called the Farmlands Flat, scheduled for early May. Unless the organizers have a cruel sense of humor, it was probably going to be flat. Even better, Laura was flying in from Crested Butte for a short break. That meant we could ride together and get in some mother/daughter fun.
Meanwhile, I greased my chain and started to train. I came up with my own training plan- ride often, ride progressively farther, and when you come to a fork in the road, take the long, flat way.
I started to name my rides. The Heart Ride looks like a valentine when you check the route on GPS. Bob’s Ride is anything that gets me to my dad’s place for a visit. The Joyride is exactly what you would assume; when I returned from it the first time, I felt that I had reached the pinnacle of Abraham Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, fully self-actualized. I extended my rides by adding loops and playing with their lengths, using my house as the midpoint of my days for lunch breaks. Over time, I was able to stretch my long rides to 50, then 65, then 85 miles. While I cruised the flats and labored up the hills, snippets of the Hamilton soundtrack flitted through my mind and often slipped out of my mouth, as I sang, Work, work! Angelica, Eliza (and Peggy), the Schuyler Sisters, Work! This girl is non-stop!
And the miles slipped under the wheels. It doesn’t hurt that Morristown and Basking Ridge and Bernardsville and Bedminster are towns replete with revolutionary history and places where Hamilton doubtless ate, slept and courted Elizabeth Schuyler. I visited them all and biked by several. I wonder if Hamilton even may have trudged or ridden past my home as he made his way north after the Battle of Monmouth.
Three days before the ride, Laura arrived, tired but happy and excited for our adventure. We did a short training ride or two then popped the Hamilton CDs into the front and the bikes in the back of the minivan. As the opening number of Lin-Manuel Miranda’s groundbreaking Broadway play introduced Laura to the bastard, orphan, son of a whore and a Scotsman, I told her we were heading for Monmouth County, scene of an important battle of the Revolutionary war. She was nonplussed, but after a minute or two, she said, “Oh, this music sounds very modern.”
“Hamilton is a hip-hop musical. It’s the biggest thing ever.”
“Oh wow! I had no idea.”
The biggest thing in New York apparently had not made much of an impression on twenty somethings in Crested Butte, Colorado.
We headed toward Asbury Park with an Air Bnb reservation and a vague plan to play pinball on the boardwalk at a place called The Silver Ball. Despite a week of rain, we were not throwing away our shot. And the forecast looked like it might improve for Saturday.
After an hour’s drive through the drizzle, I pulled up to the location. Asbury Park looked like New York City during The Day After Tomorrow, when the Arctic blast froze everything and everyone who survived huddled together in the New York Public Library, burning books to stay warm. The streets of the Jersey shore were deserted, plastic bags and Dunkin Donut cups blowing inland, randomly tossed by the whims of another Nor’easter.
The Silver Ball loomed dark, the windows clouded, a perfect place to meet for a drug deal.
Laura and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.
“This looks sketchy.”
“That’s what makes it an adventure.”
I tentatively cracked open the car door. The wind grabbed the edge of the door and I yanked it closed. Discretion trumping valor, I turned the car round to face the other way. I didn’t want the lack of a driver’s side door to slow our escape from Asbury Park. Thus repositioned, we had to shove open the doors. Stepping round a dinosaur and a giant clown, intended to entice children to play miniature golf but surely scaring them out of their wits, we turned our teeth and our flowing locks into the full force of a gale.
What is it with New Jersey and this quest? Seems Mother Nature wants me to head farther afield. As we looked north, subjecting our eyes to the blowing sand, I assured Laura that if the weather didn’t improve on the morrow, we would not be riding bikes.
Ok, so it wasn’t a beach day. We took our chances and walked into the Silver Ball. It was the locus of all humanity in Asbury Park that day. We milled about with half a dozen other people playing pinball games dating from the mid- 1950s all the way to 2016. It was a fine diversion for a stormy day. With the reaction speed of a koala and the ability to calculate angles of an English major, pinball is not my strong suit. I liked a game called Breakout, which I suck at, but maybe slightly less than I suck at games with flippers.
On the way out, famished but not willing to fuel up on hot dogs and soda, I noticed a photo booth. I had never done that before, and so in we squeezed. After five minutes, we emerged with the worst strip of photo booth pictures EVER. Only a photo booth virgin could have made such a horrendous choice.
We walked across the street to the Stone Pony and took slightly better photos at the temple of Bruce Springsteen, then, our stomachs growling and the afternoon wearing on, we drove to Red Bank and checked in at our Air Bnb digs before heading to the center of town to find food. Yo, just like our country, we were young, scrappy, and hungry.
Red Bank is a wonderful town for walking and shopping, and, first of all, eating. We chose the Dublin Inn. We watched soccer and ate like cyclists, starting with nachos and ending with big fish sandwiches and plates of pasta and chocolate pies for dessert. Then we hit the town for the night life, but it was 6 p.m.
First up, we wanted to have psychic readings done, but none were on offer until 8:30. That seemed too long a time to walk round in the rain. Across the street was a music store. I bought three books of sheet music for piano so I can torture my family with some new self- taught melodies: my first books of Pink and Tom Petty, and some fresh Billy Joel pieces I can butcher.
Too early for a reading by those attuned to other worlds, we decided to get manicures. My first ever. There were so many colors to choose from, but I quickly decided on orange, to match my cycling jersey and my favorite water bottle. The staff at the salon guided me gently through the process, primarily through the use of hand signals, due to the language barrier. I felt at home; we cyclists also use hand signals. Outside, the rain continued to fall, although the buffeting winds seemed to be confined to the coast. I felt confined, my hands under the dryer for what seemed like hours, but when I snuck them out and stood up, the signal from the staff was clear. I sat back down and put my hands under the warm air. Oh well, I thought, if the weather doesn’t cooperate, I could consider my time under the dryer as an endurance event.
Flash forward- 6 am, in our cozy townhouse, shared with a mom and her college age son. I’d been up for hours, and only fifteen more minutes to wait until the alarm was due to wake Laura. Spreading my thumb and forefinger, I separated the blinds to glimpse our cycling fate out the window. Fog, puddles, spatters from the sky. And a hurricane came, and devastation reigned. We could see our future drip dripping down the drain…But we are here to ride- let’s try.
The drive to our start point, Brookdale Community College, was very short, and we arrived to a full parking lot and a fair number of grumbly cyclists. Folks were bailing on the ride, others were talking about doing shorter distances than they had planned. It was chilly, rainy, breezy. Personally I prefer that to the 100 degree heat which killed 1000 soldiers at the Battle of Monmouth.
Laura and I checked in and got some coffee and breakfast and put air in our tires. With a laugh and an extra layer of clothing on, we mounted up and rode together for the first 8 miles, until Laura’s green arrows for the 35 mile ride diverged from my white arrows for the Century at a classic south Jersey traffic circle. We were on our own.
The weather held. The roads dried. And I looked down at my arrows and read them wrong and went left when I should have gone right. This is easier to do than you might think, especially at the blistering pace I was setting. Not, but even so. I suspect very little oxygen is able to get into the brain of a cyclist with a properly fitted helmet. Finding myself at a T intersection with no arrows, I backtracked and made a correction.
The course was flat as a Wisconsin accent. The only hills were the rises on overpasses. Ascending one, I saw a young man wearing a parka and gloves. He looked a bit like the Michelin Man out for a 100 mile bike ride.
“Is this your first time?,” I asked.
“Yes! And my girlfriend’s too!”
We rode together for a bit and chatted. I tried to tactfully suggest that perhaps he might want to take the parka off. The sun was nearly out. I had ditched my sleeves. At first, I felt like we three may have been able to share the 80 miles ahead of us, but I realized three fundamental truths at the exact same time. Number One: We weren’t well matched for pace. Number Two: my new found friends were going to struggle to do the Century ride before the close of the decade. Number Three: He can’t be left alone to his devices. He’s indecisive from crisis to crisis. By crisis, I mean busy intersection. He was yelling at his friend, Attack! Retreat! Attack! Retreat! And I didn’t feel I would be safe with them. Honestly, I never saw them arrive at the rest stop. I think their day came to an end. I hope they had fun while it lasted.
I buddied up with a pair of men after passing through the most charming town on the route, Allentown. They seemed to be running GPS and they were strong, stronger than I, but I felt I could hang with them for a bit. We rode pretty fast, but we rode off the course, as the arrows disappeared and we had that familiar sinking feeling. The GPS was off…Retreat. Regroup, Rediscover the arrows. Ahh, finally, rest stop one, 30 miles in.
I sidled up to the snack table to down some trail mix and refill my Gatorade bottle, and briefly thought about joining up with a regiment of riders who were pulling out the driveway. Alas, they were on their way in, having already completed the extra loop that makes the century ride. I soldiered on alone, for the next 20 miles. Then, at the halfway point, I caught a break at the snack table. I saw the colors of a familiar battalion 7 feet ahead of me. They were the Morris Area Freewheelers, ably represented by Manny, Al, and Ron. I have seen their uniforms out on training rides all over Morris and Somerset. They told me that the weather had made deserters of much of their cohort, and they confirmed that they could use a new recruit. This orphan rider had found her regiment.
The Freewheelers are a very active cycling club. They host rides every day of the week, and they sponsor and support one of the best recreational rides in New Jersey, The Revolutionary Ramble. Now in its eighth year, The Ramble explores the roads of Morris and Somerset counties, featuring a revolutionary war theme, thus visiting many haunts frequented by Washington, Lafayette, and, of course, Hamilton. This ride benefits local ambulance squads, and takes place in early June. I have ridden it five times. Distances range from 12 miles to a full, hilly century. Next year, I will volunteer for the Ramble and help with food or traffic management.
Ron, Al, and Manny are poster boys for the benefits of biking. All three are older than I. All three ride several times a week. Manny is 67, and rode 6,000 miles last year. How amazing and wonderful is that? Inspirational.
We traded stories and traded the lead for fifty friendly miles. As we approached the finish, the guys pulled back and allowed me my moment of glory as I pulled into the driveway and saw my daughter and completed my very first century ride. This is one type of event I will surely try again. I think cycling is a good fit for me, a sport I should be able to pursue for a lifetime.
Like our forefathers, despite the weather, we snatched a stalemate (at least!) from the jaws of defeat. And as we headed north to our encampment for rest and relaxation, with Laura at the wheel and me dozing off next to her, I thought, “Everyone must sit under their own vine, or fig tree, and no one shall make them afraid… they’re safe in the nation we’ve made… one last time.” And we pulled into the drive, safe and sound.
